Sentence Pattern Seven
by Nibzo
Summary: We all know that Britain gets really angry whenever America skews his perfect language. But what happens when he finds out that the git has actually done something intelligent with it? Is he actually...turned on? USUK, rated M for some lovin' and a bit of language.


**Y'know those ideas for short one-shots that just kind of float around in your head and won't leave you alone until they're finished?**

**That was one of these.**

**So I'm sitting in class and we start the day off reading a newspaper article.**

"**The curious art of diagramming sentences was invented 165 years ago by S.W. Clark, a schoolmaster in Homer, N.Y."**

**I do a double-take. Wait, excuse me? Diagramming sentences was invented in the United States?**

**Holy sweet Jesus, how can I NOT write a fanfic around this?**

**And so, this is the result. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I did not invent the curious art of diagramming sentences. I do not own Hetalia. Also, see that quote up there? That was from The New York Times. I don't own that either. There's also the chickens and wheelbarrow later. I own neither of those, and the original reference I do not own either.  
**

There he was, being pressed into the wall by the taller blond, kisses going up and down his neck, small moans and grunts escaping his lips as he dug his fingers into the fabric of the other man's arm. The Brit's shirt was unbuttoned and his tie was hanging loosely from his neck, the knee of his partner going between his legs as he let out another long moan.

On the board behind them was a series of words and lines, the parallel and perpendicular slopes separating the words written in white chalk. The words often went the same way as the lines they were on, and when looking closer one could see a sentence form itself amidst the strange pattern.

_Today we will discuss temperature change in each of our respective countries._

The Brit knew that line well, for he had initially written it. He remembered sitting down weeks before to prepare his speech on global warming, and in order to get everyone talking about it he had come up with that exact sentence to open his speech. There it was, written on the board of the empty conference room for everyone to see, written in this strange way that would make non-English speakers look upon in confusion.

"Mmmm, you know what sentence pattern this is, Iggy?" the taller blond asked as he licked up the other's neck. Britain was gasping for air at the contact, clinging to the other and moaning his name, "A…Am…'erica…"

"Sentence. Pattern. Seven," he whispered sensually into the Brit's ear, and the other loudly moaned as he nearly came in his trousers right then and there.

This wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

-1863-

It was around this time that the countries had decided on holding special meetings like this. Whether their bosses knew of it or not, the countries were interested in each other's business and did sometimes like to stay in contact with each other. It was agreed that one would be held once every year, and most of the times this was all they would see of each other.

Britain assumed this was maybe their fifth or sixth meeting, he had it written down somewhere in the notes he took but couldn't remember off of the top of his head. Generally countries would show up depending on who they knew was coming; if an argument was sure to break out between nations then it was most likely one or both nations involved in that argument wouldn't show up. Britain, however, made a point to always show up to each meeting; even if he was feuding with the others he would hold his tongue unless he really felt the other deserved a verbal lashing.

Right now he would have liked to give a verbal lashing to his former colony, America. The boy had been so defiant and annoying the last time they had seen each other.

First was the boy's attitude in general. America always made it a point to remind Britain how he had "kicked his butt" during the Revolution, and how he was so much better off without him. This had begun shortly after the Revolution too, and had been going on for over 50 years now. God, that was infuriating. Even burning down the git's capitol didn't seem to solve anything, since he still kept up the teasing afterward, even though it did seem to shut him up temporarily. And Britain had to admit that at the time it had felt brilliant to lay siege and hurt the American back.

But this seemed to be the least of his problems concerning America. What infuriated him the most others would probably shrug off, but it never ceased to piss the Brit off to no end.

It was his language, and how the boy had pretty much gone in and changed it overnight. Dropping letters and then adding letters, creating different slogans and meanings, and even shortening words "for ease in conversation". If anything, it made the brat seem lazier when he didn't conform to the rules of proper English.

Just thinking about it seemed to fuel Britain's anger. What right did that wanker have to change his language; it was HIS language. Britain wanted to do nothing more than to take America into a locked room and angrily yell at the boy and chastise him until he felt sated.

Thing was, America had missed the last two meetings. And since Britain hadn't been able to yell at him then the anger inside of him had been building up to the point where he was going to explode at the tiniest thing.

Of course, he could just sail over to America and give what was coming to him when he arrived. But that would be a waste of time and besides, America seemed pretty busy as of late with that war going on in his own country. The Brit snickered at this too; he wasn't even able to keep his own people in line.

As he walked down the hall to the meeting room contemplating all of this, he heard a curious scratching. It resonated through the hallway and made him stop in his tracks; Britain had suspected he had been the first to arrive, and with two hours until the meeting no one else would be in the building. He continued walking in order to find the source of the mysterious scratching, noticing that as he went forward it gained in volume, though only slightly, as if someone were writing.

Sure enough outside of the designated meeting room someone was inside writing. He peeked inside the opening of the door and smirked when he saw that it was America holding the piece of chalk that moved fluently along the smooth surface of the blackboard. Oh, how lucky he was; no one was around and the Brit had the chance to scold the American as much as he liked. He could just imagine the look on the American's face as he yelled at him, the taller blond's face drooping as the onslaught of insults and reprimands continued one after the other until the Brit was satisfied.

However, upon entering the room he couldn't help but notice that America was wounded. The arm he wasn't using to write was held up in a sling, and he seemed to have difficulty standing on both feet, wincing in pain and he gently rocked back and forth to prevent himself from standing in one position for too long. Feeling a little bit of pity for him he confidently strode forward; yes, the other was injured, but Britain felt the need to yell at him far more compelling than his pity for the state the American was in.

"Hey America," he began, a small hint of venom in his voice. He was grinning with excitement; finally he would be able to let loose and get everything that had been bothering him about the other nation off of his chest.

"Oh, hey Britain," the other said back, softly for once.

Now observing the mess that was on the board, Britain found that this situation was too good to be true. On it were random words circled in a series, some smaller than the others, but either way it looked quite foolish. "What exactly are you doing?" he smirked, expecting some pea-brained excuse in which he could use to further humiliate the American.

"Oh, just diagramming sentences is all."

"Diagramming sentences, why that's…" but then he stopped. Diagramming sentences? He hadn't ever heard of someone being able to diagram a sentence before. Suddenly, he felt intrigued. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, it's something I learned awhile back," the American laughed, "and it's actually been pretty helpful in calming me down nowadays."

"Oh," Britain replied. How could this be happening? Here he had wanted to…no, no, the git was just making up nonsense to make himself seem more intelligent. Britain would not back down that easily.

"Show me," he challenged.

"Oh, sure," America reached for the eraser and wiped away what he had been working on. Over it he drew three long ovals, one right next to the other. "This guy taught me that sentences could be diagrammed. The subject, "he pointed to the first bubble, "goes right here. The verb," now shifting to the second bubble, "goes in this one. And finally," he moved his chalk to the last bubble, "the direct object goes over here."

"You've lost it."

"Ah, that's a good example," America chimed. "See, 'you' would go in this first one since it's a contraction and is combined with 'have'. So the verb would be 'have lost', which is transitive. Finally, you have the direct object, 'it'."

"Do another one," Britain challenged.

"Oh, that's a good one too. See, there isn't really a subject in this sentence, but it is implied, so you can put the implied 'you' in the first one. 'Do' therefore is the verb, and 'one' the direct object." He drew one of the smaller balloons underneath, and then wrote the word "another" into it. "'Another' is an adjective, making it adjectival in use, so it would go under 'one', since it modifies the direct object…" he paused, "or maybe it would go under 'do' because it comes before the direct object…"

"Wait, wait…" Britain interrupted. America looked up from the blackboard at the smaller blond quizzically, and Britain stood in thought for a moment as he rifled through his brain for a difficult sentence.

"So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens."

America nodded and immediately set to work. Britain stood in amazement as America first wrote down the sentence and then pulled out two specific words for the subject and verb. He then looked back at the sentence and drew a smaller balloon that he attached to the verb balloon. Keeping to this process he drew circle after circle, crossing out words from the original sentence as he filled them in. A few minutes later, he stepped back and admired his work, nodding and then turning to England.

"Okay, 'much' is your initial subject, and 'depends' is your initial verb," he began, pointing to the two biggest bubbles with "much" and "depends" in them. "Upon sets off the preposition and is adverbial…"

Of course, Britain wasn't even paying attention. He was flabbergasted at this technique: it was preposterous, it was insane, it was…really intelligent. He was struggling to hold in his arousal, eyes glazed over in lust as America babbled on about prepositions and participles. This random burst of intelligence was really turning him on.

"And finally, you can go back and put the 'so' under 'much', since it modifies the subject," America concluded with a smile. "There you have it," he traced the words in the order they were spoken in, "so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens. Hey, that's actually pretty good," he laughed, "maybe I'll have to have one of my guys do something with that line."

It had slipped out without thought. "Do me."

Of course, America, the oblivious fool he was, took that as another challenge to diagram, and he erased his previous challenge to set to work on another. "Ah, this one is kind of like the first one you gave me with an implied subject. So we'll start with 'you'…"

Britain wouldn't have any of the American's naïve antics though. Instead he forcefully closed the distance between then, a few quick strides for him, and pushed their bodies together. America gasped in surprise, falling to the floor with the Brit on top of him. He closed his eyes and let out a pained groan upon connecting with the floor, his arm in the sling and wounded leg affected the most.

"Ow…," he winced before he opened his eyes to see the smaller blond straddling his hips. "…Britain?"

"Stupid. I meant you do me."

The American's cheeks grew red in embarrassment after a few tense seconds of silence. Of course, the idiot he was, started stuttering, unable to really believe what he was actually hearing. "I-I-you…excuse me?"

"You daft?" Britain responded, leaning over the American, who gave a pained grunt when he felt his arm squished between their two bodies. The smaller blond paid no attention to that though as his lips grazed the other's ear. "Have sex with me, stupid," he whispered, licking at it sensually.

"R-r-right here?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Right now?!"

"Obviously."

"But-but-but…"

"Will you just shut up?" Britain responded, moving his hips ever so slightly so that his semi-hard erection rubbed against the other's crotch. America let out a gasp at that, his eyes as big as dinner plates. This wasn't really happening, was it? Sure enough, though, the smaller blond's frock coat was now on the floor in a pile and he was removing his waistcoat, hurryingly fingering at the buttons before shrugging that off as well and leaning over to start on the wide-eyed Americans.

"Waitwaitwait!" he finally yelled. The Brit sat back up, weight shifting against the taller blond's tender arm and he winced. It was then that Britain did seem to take into account the other's injury, how difficult it would be to remove the other's clothing with that arm in a sling. How the other would probably not want to participate if it meant he would be in even more pain.

Contemplating this, the Brit voiced aloud, "No matter," and began unbuttoning his trousers, still straddling the American with no intention to move, but if he wanted sex he should at least make sure the other was somewhat comfortable, right? So then they wouldn't remove their shirts; if anything Britain could do this so that the American was still fully-clothed and only nude where it really mattered.

America's eyes just blinked in shock as the other male began to remove his trousers though, and while his mouth moved in an attempt to say something he couldn't get the words to come out. Instead he embarrassingly stuttered nonsense, strained syllables and gasps of shock as his mind tried to catch up with what was going on.

"_You should stop that RIGHT NOW,"_ one voice in his head would protest rather loudly.

"_But you want this. You've wanted this for so long,"_ another voice would say.

Unaware of the inner turmoil going on in the git's head, Britain frowned at the look on the American's face. It was a mix of horrified, shocked, and, maybe he was just imagining this, pleasure? Happiness? Perhaps a combination of the two; something that was positive and would urge him to continue.

Of course, this was going against his own moral code. He was a gentleman. A gentleman did not force sex on a partner unwillingly. He may have wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted in his long life of being a nation, his erection, which had grown since beginning the whole thing, screaming at him to get on with it. Hell, he should at least say something to calm the American down; say something that may ease his mind…

"Oh stop giving me that look," his said as he shucked off his trousers, astonishingly while still somewhat sitting down, his underwear tenting, "it's not like I'm going to penetrate you while you're arm is in a sling."

Wow, had that come out wrong.

"Yeah, uhhh," America tried to think of a witty comeback, his mind scrambling for something, anything, "because that was what I was really concerned about." Good enough.

"Just leave everything to me, love," he had torn off his own underwear in haste and was now straddling the American bare-bottomed, his DocStripe shirt really the only piece of clothing he had kept on. If America's chest was still going to be clothed, than so was his. He fumbled with the zipper of America's trousers now, his hand feeling a small lump forming at the crotch. The shorter blond shot the American a sly grin, feeling his own member pulse at the fact that he wasn't the only one getting excited. With a quick movement, Britain finished pulling the zipper down and looped his fingers along the waistband of the other's trousers and underwear in an attempt to pull them down at the same time. "Lift your hips a little bit, love."

America's face looked angry, but he still complied, shifting slightly so that his ass lifted off the ground, and Britain swiftly pulled both garments down so that they were pooling around his knees. Just as he had felt, the other nation was somewhat hard, body not quite protesting to his ministrations as he had originally thought. "Well," he thought, "I can remedy that rather quickly."

He moved himself down ever so slightly and leaned over, and before America could even begin to protest him any further the Brit ducked his head down and gave a long, slow lick from the taller blond's sack to the tip of his cock. While he had been balancing his weight on his good arm, it gave out and America felt himself lean backward as he lifted that arm to his face and bit at his wrist to stifle a moan. That felt too good. At the next long, tantalizing lick America's teeth dug into his wrist, and he was sure that he was biting so hard that the skin had probably broken.

On the third lick the Brit lingered at his head, tongue darting out to lap at its redness. America could slowly feel himself starting to go crazy. He couldn't see anything from his position on the floor, but oh was his overactive imagination filling in the blanks for him quite well. Panting into his arm he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on his clothed wrist and biting harshly when he felt the pleasure grow too intense in order to hold back his moans and groans.

When the shorter blond began actually sucking on the head, the tip of the American's cock in his mouth, the blue-eyed man felt that if before he were going crazy than now he was utterly insane. And by now he couldn't even help it; his wrist left his mouth and he choked out a loud and surprised moan. The Brit smirked on the other's cock, and rewarded America's beautiful sound with the movement of his head as he began bobbing up and down.

The American wasn't even going to try holding back moans any longer, pride be damned. The Brit was sucking him off and it felt so good, God damn, why didn't this happen more often? He let out a string of moans and expletives, his breath hitching and pitch rising as the shorter blond swirled his tongue up and down his long shaft like he was an expert or something. His member was now standing tall, pulsing in the other's mouth, America feeling like he would soon reach his limit, but he didn't want the other to stop, please don't stop, "Please-please-please don't stop," he heard himself mutter between breaths.

Britain smirked. His partner was now trying to clutch at the carpet, fingers digging into the short fibers as if he were trying to grab a hold of his own sanity. Perfect; just the way he wanted him. With a resounding pop, he removed his mouth from the American's engorged member.

"Hah?" America breathed, questioning why the other's sinfully wonderful mouth had suddenly left him. His cheeks were a rosy red as his chest raised rapidly, wounded arm rising with every breath he took. His fingers slackened as he put his weight on his good arm again, balancing on his elbow in order to look up. He audibly gulped at what he saw; the Brit was slicking up his fingers with saliva, tonguing three of his digits the exact same way he had tongued the American's cock. He could feel his member twitch in anticipation when Britain smirked and removed his fingers, reaching back around to his rear until…

"Ah!" he cried as he penetrated himself on only one finger. Fuck, was he ever tight; it had been a good long while since he had last done this. Then again, he rarely saw himself on the receiving end. If anything it was so America's injury wouldn't get in the way. Yes, that was definitely why he was taking it up the ass; it wasn't because America's hot, long cock stood proud and tall, the boy had grown quite a bit really. It wasn't because he was licking his lips in anticipation and excitement for America, who could possibly be one of the bigger ones he had seen. And it certainly wasn't because he wanted to feel his former colony inside of him.

"Right," the voice in his head said sarcastically as he slipped in a second finger, "keep telling yourself that."

He began to scissor himself, stretching the two fingers around in his ass as he tried to widen his hole. Biting his lip he closed his eyes, it really had been too long. He let out another pant as he tried to send the two fingers in farther, spreading them apart bit by bit. The Brit suddenly let out another loud gasp as he felt his aching cock being stroked, and when he cracked an eye open he was surprised to see America, face even redder than before, pulling at his own cock.

"That's really not necessary, lad," Britain choked out. He could take care of things on his own.

"You looked uncomfortable."

"It just hurts a bit. It's been awhile."

"So let me help make it better," America gave another firm tug.

At that the Brit inserted the third finger. When the three were snug inside his walls he pulled them all out together, right to the tips, before shoving them back in. It stung a bit, but not as much as when he had inserted the first finger. It could also be the hand around his cock, balancing out the pain with an intense pleasure, in fact, it probably was the hand, but he would never let America know that.

After a few more swift thrusts of his fingers he removed the digits; he felt he had prepared himself enough and was more than ready to go, but looking down at the American's size again he wondered if he truly had. Hell, he wondered if any preparation he could have done would have prepared him better for the real thing. Shaking off that last thought he eased above the taller blond, lining up his hole with the other's member before taking a deep breath and then slowly, gently easing himself onto the other's cock, America's hand still on the green-eyed blond's member.

"Ahhh," he voiced aloud, feeling his voice stop and catch in his throat. Nothing could have really prepared him for this, really, but the other's pulsing member inside of him was enough to drive him mad with pleasure. It had been so long since he had been filled like that; so, so long. The other was even still tugging at his own member, the pain and pleasure mingling and sending tingles up his spine as he was stroked off. Finally, after what seemed like a good five minutes of taking his time, the Brit was fully seated on the other's cock.

Britain panted, keeping himself in that one position, letting him get situated. Looking at the taller blond he could tell the other was using all of his control to not move a single inch, to prevent himself from wildly thrusting into his hole. If anything, it looked as if the American was having just as much difficulty breathing as he was.

And it was quiet too, save for the sound of their echoed breaths mingling together. He was surprised at the sudden silence; the moaning that had preceded this stillness, this calm, would have made him think once he actually had put the blue-eyed blond's member into him that there would be nothing but obscenities and loud moans filling the room. Plus, the other never actually did know when to shut his mouth. In a way, though, the silence seemed to bother him.

It seemed to bother America as well; he raised his hips slightly in order to give a small push to the Brit, as if to remind him that he was sitting on his cock. The smaller blond closed his eyes and moaned; it had hurt only a little bit, so he deemed himself ready. With slow, steady movements, he withdrew himself until just the tip was inside of him before moving himself back down, repeating the action at his leisurely pace, letting himself get used to the feeling of the American inside of him.

"Britaiiiiiiiiiiin," he moaned, drawing out that last syllable. America really just couldn't take how good this was actually feeling. He wanted to explode. For all he knew, he would explode from the intense pleasure of the Brit going slowly up and down on his cock. And he was slowly getting faster and faster.

As Britain sped up, his hips moving up and down at a more rapid pace, he could tell that America was getting closer. He too felt himself closer and closer to orgasm, but by the look on his partner's face he could tell that he was still quite a bit behind. He smirked; of course he would have more stamina, and even if he was as excited as America it would only be because of how he seduced him by "diagramming sentences". What utter nonsense. How silly was it to lay out sentences and break them down as if it were some sort of science.

Or rather, how bloody brilliant it all was.

When he thought about them he worked even harder, impaling himself over and over again with greater speed on the American's cock. With a particularly hard thrust he was able to finally hit his prostrate, sending him into a whole different realm of pleasure. It felt so good. _"More, more, more!" _he thought, feeling himself lightly brush against that bundle of nerves again and again.

It only got better when America actually started meeting his thrusts, moving up when he came down. At that point it wasn't the slight touch, that little brush against his pleasure point; it was a full-on assault. He moved his hips up and down as fast as he could, each time trying to strike it harder. He was so close, he was so bloody close.

"Britain!" America screamed out his name and the other could feel the cum suddenly surging into his hole. He knew the American would finish before him, the taller blond now just blindly thrusting into him in order to ride out his orgasm. Not too far behind, Britain grabbed his own cock and began stroking it at a frenzied pace, fist moving up and down and America's member still pounding at his prostrate.

"America…" he whispered. The double-assault of pleasure was too much for him, and moments later he himself came, white ribbon shooting onto America's chest.

-Present-

The two collapsed into bed and breathed heavily, chests moving up and down with their unsteady breaths. A quick handjob in the conference room had led to some of the best sex Britain and America had ever had later that evening. Finally letting themselves catch up with each other, the Brit reached for a few Kleenex on the table to wipe up the mess they had made on their stomachs.

"Dude…" America finally breathed out. Of course that would be the first thing he said. Britain trashed the dirty Kleenex and, even though he felt desperately in need of a shower, they could do that later. For now, he was exhausted. He cuddled into his lover, still able to hear the rapid thumping of his heart as it pounded against his chest.

"You and your stupid sentences," Britain said. The American chuckled, and Britain lightly hit his stomach. "Wanker. You know what that does to me."

"You are such a narcissist when it comes to your own language," he stroked his lover's hair. "I swear."

"It's not narcissism. I get turned on when you can actually prove to me that you are intelligent."

"Whatever, Iggy. That's why it happens when I _only_ diagram sentences. In English."

"Well of course you'd diagram them in English. Any other language would just look ridiculous."

The American laughed again, and Britain could feel the chuckles shaking his own body. He took in a deep breath and sighed contentedly. Every single time his stupid git of a boyfriend diagrammed sentences he ended up jumping the taller blond. That itself was starting to get quite ridiculous.

After a few moments of some relaxed silence, the two just stroking each other's backs in post-sex bliss, America finally spoke. "Y'know, that's my favorite one to use on you."

"Hmmm?"

"Sentence pattern seven."

Britain moved to balance himself on one of his elbows so that he could get a good look at the American. He had a favorite pattern out of all ten of them? "Do go on."

"Well," the other was drawing circles on the Brit's stomach, but he took a pause and bit his lip. He seemed to have a hard time explaining this to the island nation. However, his face lit up moments later, as if he had an epiphany of how he was going to explain who, of all things, he really liked sentence pattern seven.

"Here, let me show you," he said, and drew a straight line on the Brit's belly. "Alright then, so you know the subject comes first, then transitive verb, then direct object, right?"

Britain laughed. "I'm well aware of sentence patterns by now, love."

"Right, right. So, 'I'," he drew in the eye and then put a line perpendicular to the first one he drew to separate subject and verb, "'love'," he drew the second perpendicular line, "'you'."

Never before had Britain's face turned the shade of red it was now. He couldn't believe it, really. Never before had he witnessed a display of affection so cute and so sickeningly sappy as the one his lover had just performed, on his own stomach no less. America was blushing as well, but it was more of a small, light dusting of a blush, and he was smiling sweetly back at him.

"You…you're a…" he bit his lip. He was really more stunned than anything. "You're such an idiot."

"Awww, but I'm your idiot."

"Git."

America laughed heartily before that laugh quickly turned into a yawn. He wrapped his arm around the Brit and held him close, burying his nose into that wild blond hair before taking in a deep breath. "G'night, Arthur."

"Yes, yes," Britain huffed indignantly, knowing that the other was going to get this cuddly and affectionate after sex whether he liked it or not. Not that he didn't like it though. "Goodnight."

America closed his eyes and quickly felt himself slipping into the blissful unconsciousness that was sleep. A few moments went by where he just enjoyed listening to the shallow breathing of his lover, the two holding each other tightly right before they drifted off.

However, America felt a tickling at his belly, as if it were being stroked lightly by a feather. It took him a moment to realize that Britain was also tracing something against his stomach, and while at first it had seemed like it was only the random circles he was used to he then felt a long line being traced, as if to resemble…

_I_

something he had done earlier…

_love_

He wasn't…no, he definitely wasn't.

_you_

He was. America was sure of it. And with that last diagonal line undeaneath the verb, America smiled and held Britain closer, finally feeling himself drift off into sleep.

_too._

**END**

**If the instructor of this class were to see this, he would most likely shake his head in disapproval before correcting all of the errors.**

**So yeah. The first thought I had when we read this article other than the initial surprise that diagramming sentences was first done in America was that Britain is always picking on America for skewing his language and how he'd be so proud…and then my mind slowly fell into the gutter from there.**

**But it was soooooooooooooo hard writing this. The sex scene was just…I just had a rather difficult time writing it this time. I seriously started this fic while I was still in school, so something early-spring. It's August and I finally finished it because I got to the sex scene and just…just…felt like a lazy ass and didn't do anything. And then every time I came back to write more I would add one sentence or one paragraph and then just save and be done for the day.**

**But yeah, I have one more USUK/UKUS fic like that I need to finish. Just…no motivation to do the sex scene whatsoever. Hmmm…I should convince myself to get that done before school starts up again in a few weeks.**

**Also, the art of diagramming sentences was discovered in 1847. I Britain finding out a bit later so that America could use them as an excuse to calm down during the Civil War, hence his injury. I thought it would be a good idea to combine the two.  
**

**Finally if you realized what England is referring to when he says, "So much depends...", I award you all the internets. I love William Carlos Williams, and this is actually an American poem. So America did tell his guys to do something about it.  
**

**Please leave a review if you liked it. Reviews are like candy…or peanut butter…or whatever else you fancy that you think would make a good analogy. Either way, they all make me smile. Hope you enjoyed!**


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